


Turning Twenty

by masi



Category: Karneval
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, M/M, Slight Yogi/Gareki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 11:10:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masi/pseuds/masi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tsukumo seeks advice on love, attends a masquerade, and celebrates her twentieth birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning Twenty

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Copyrighted material belongs to their respective owners. _Karneval_ © Touya Mikanagi.  
> This fanfic is based on the anime, so Iva (Eva) is part of the Second Ship instead of the First. Also, apologies for the melodrama and any ooc-ness! This is why I avoid writing love stories.

Tsukumo has learned over the years that this kind of behavior is both impractical and unproductive. She shouldn’t be giving her all for every single task just so that Hirato will smile at her, say “well done.” She shouldn’t be blushing on the rare occasions he rests a hand on her shoulder, and then, when he has gone, place her own hand on that spot, keep it there for as long as she can.

There was a time it was enough to love him as a mentor and boss and friend, the friend who had saved her. An older brother, almost, who had taken an interest in her, seen potential in her, given her a place to call home. She should be content with that, with successfully completing the tasks he delegates to her. As the years go by, he has given her more and more difficult missions, a sign that he believes her capable.

It is selfish for her to want more, to be jealous of the elegant women he smiles and flirts so cleverly with at formal events. Stupid, to stay up at night, waiting to hear his steady footsteps turn towards the kitchen, and then get up to hang around him until he invites her to join him for a cup of tea.

She shouldn’t be doing unproductive things like asking Yogi, while both of them are getting ready for a Circus show, “How did you convince Gareki-kun to love you back?”

Yogi blushes a bright, bright red, launches into a story that begins with the night Gareki stomped over him while he was in his Nyanperowna costume and continues on, long and rambling, with detailed accounts of every single adventure they have ever been on, along with a few wherein Yogi wasn’t physically present. The story features many instances of Gareki ignoring him, refusing to address him by his name, and punching him. Tough love, Yogi insists. But it is love. Persistence is the moral of the story.

“Are you in love, Tsukumo-chan?” he asks, just as they are about to step out of the tent. 

Iva is a better candidate for questioning. While they are having a “girls’ night out,” sampling food from the best restaurants in town, Tsukumo asks if the saying that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach is true. She hopes it isn’t true because she is terrible at cooking. 

“Maybe,” Iva replies, “but you have to make sure they cook for you too. The best kind of relationship is a give-and-take one. If you’re doing all the giving, you need to find yourself another man. And,” she grabs Tsukumo by the shoulders and squeezes, “you’re still too young to tie yourself down like that, Tsukumo-chan! Let’s go have some fun!”

There is a knowing look now in Iva’s eyes whenever she sees Tsukumo with Hirato. “He’s too old for you, Tsukumo-chan,” she says on one occasion, as she is drawing a tiny blue heart on the nail of Tsukumo’s left ring finger. “A smart, pretty girl like you, you can have anyone. Don’t waste your time and looks on old, difficult men.”

Tsukumo doesn’t like to contradict Iva, who has far more worldly wisdom than anyone in the Circus and has her love life in order, can never be seen sighing or shedding a tear over anyone, but she feels the need to say, “He isn’t just any old, difficult man.”

“No?” Iva starts on the pinky finger. “Well then, that makes it even worse. Infatuation born out of a sense of gratitude is the worst.”

Iva is correct, Tsukumo knows from the countless cases the Circus has had to handle, men and women driven mad with desire, turning into Varuga, turning on themselves. However, she is different. Though she is grateful to Hirato, she isn’t infatuated. She admires and loves him and can’t love anyone else. She has tried.

She wants Hirato to love her back, treat her as someone more than just a member of the team, of the Second Ship family, wants him to touch her, stroke his long fingers through her hair, bend down to kiss her. The main difference between her and those who are infatuated is that she knows how to reign in her feelings. She would rather leave the Second Ship than be a source of discomfort for Hirato.

***

On Tsukumo’s twentieth birthday, Hirato sends her out on a mission. Both Iva and Yogi offer to go in her place, their scandalized expressions indicating that it is horrible for Hirato to do this to her. He smiles, says, “Nonsense. You two have a show to manage. Tsukumo shouldn’t have any trouble finishing her task in time for a slice of cake before midnight.”

He stops her as she is preparing to leave the ship, slides a golden mask over her eyes. There is an odd smile on his face. “Beautiful,” he says, and she manages to reign in her blush and steady her heart rate by concentrating very hard on the memory of that time Kiichi vomited all over her shoes.

Tonight’s mission is relatively simple. She has to attend a masquerade and arrest the host, who has been peddling dangerous drugs to his clientele, also in attendance tonight. As Hirato said, a task easy enough to complete in time for her birthday cake. 

Hirato always orders a cake for each of their birthdays, and they have a small celebration, just Tsukumo, Yogi, and Iva, with the cake and tea. He joins in sometimes. Nothing good can come of disrupting the peace in their makeshift family, Tsukumo reminds herself as she enters the ballroom. She should lock away any and all feelings that are not platonic into a corner of her heart.

Thus decided, she straightens her shoulders, adjusts her mask, and tries not to remember the soft press of Hirato’s bare fingers against her cheekbones as he had settled the mask over her nose. She steps into the ballroom.

The room is filled from one end to the other with women in glittering gowns and men in tailored tuxedoes and top hats. Elaborate masks cover each face. The crowd spins over the gleaming floor, the jewels in each dancer’s hair and clothes twinkling with the reflected light of the chandeliers above. It is a good thing that the Second Ship already has intel on the crime: it would have been difficult to parse out any culprit in this gathering.

She is halfway into the room, just past the buffet table and its array of appetizers and drinks, when a very familiar voice speaks up behind her, “Excuse me, miss.”

She turns so quickly, her shoulder bumps into a passing dancer, who gives her a dirty look before spinning away. Hirato smiles, holds out a gloved hand. “May I have this dance?”

“Hirato-san!” she says. 

He is wearing a blue half-mask and is without his glasses, but he is unmistakably Hirato. The mask only manages to hide his beautiful cheekbones, accentuates the warmth in his dark violet eyes. She would recognize the eyes, the thin lips, the brown hair curling over his ears, down his neck, anywhere.

She glances at the grandfather clock near the door. She left the ship only a half hour ago. Surely he can’t expect her to complete the job in such a short amount of time. She asks, “Am I behind schedule?” A thought occurs. “Oh, is the host not within the room? I will go find him-”

“Ohime-sama,” Hirato touches her hand. “Tonight you are no more Tsukumo than I am Hirato. Will you do me the honor of being my dance partner?”

In a sense, he is correct. They both have donned different outfits, him a less austere tux, her a more adult, full-length gown. And a masquerade is always a chance to adopt a different persona. She asks, “But what about the host?”

“The host and his partners are already in the First Ship’s care now. Tsukitachi was more than willing to help me after I gently reminded him of how many favors he owes me.”

She wants to ask him why he sent her on this job then, but the answer is obvious, in the line of his outstretched arm, the angle of his hand, held out to her, palm up. This must be a dream, she concludes, settling her fingers over his. 

He squeezes her fingers briefly before guiding her towards the center of the room. “They seem to be segueing into a waltz,” he remarks, placing one hand on her back, intertwining the fingers of his other with hers. “You will have to guide me, Ohime-sama.” 

She nods, rests a hand on his shoulder, wishing that they weren’t wearing gloves. He smiles, and then they begin the dance. He spins her around the room, negotiating space with ease and aplomb. She leans a little closer into him than the dance dictates, sniffs the long line of his neck, inhales in the familiar scent of his cologne, musky, with a hint of something spicier, cinnamon perhaps or pepper. He doesn’t comment.

They reach the French windows just as the last piano notes fade into silence. He releases her hand, kisses it, removes his other hand from where it had gravitated to the small of her back. The spot tingles pleasantly. 

The violinists ready their bows for the next dance. The dancers untangle themselves, adjust their masks, feathers, and gloves. Adjust their smiles. A few wander over to the buffet table. No one seems to have noticed that the host is missing. 

He steps outside, asks, “Will you join me?”

When they have started up the lantern-lit garden path, she says, “Thank you for the dance.”

“Always a pleasure to dance with a beautiful lady,” he replies.

She is not sure how to continue this game. The sentences used by cool, properly adult women when responding to him will only sound ridiculous in her mouth. She takes the mask off.

“Ready to go already?” Hirato asks.

Tsukumo looks up at him for a moment, the shadows flickering over his face, the fake smile, and before she can talk herself out of it, reaches up and puts her arms around his shoulders, kisses him firmly on his mouth.

“Tsukumo,” he begins, her name soft in his mouth, a breath ghosting over her lips.

“Just for tonight,” she says. “Please.”

After a moment, he replies, “Only for tonight. Because a little birdie told me it was your birthday.”

“That’s …” More than enough, she wants to say. Wonderful. But, it isn’t, it won’t be. Maybe she is being greedy, obnoxious perhaps, but.

He bends down and kisses her back, a soft press of dry lips against hers, still far too gentle. Another kiss, below her right ear. His hand squeezes her hip, briefly. Then he slides his mask up onto his head, puts his glasses on. She releases him. 

Before she can turn away, he puts a finger under her chin, tilts it up. “I have high hopes for you, Tsukumo,” Hirato says. “I want you to become captain one day, and I won’t let anything jeopardize that. After you have attained that position, you can have your way with me. Provided you still wish to.” He smiles, small and warm. “That is a promise.”

***

In the entrance hall of the ship, Hirato says, “happy birthday, dear Tsukumo,” hands her his mask, and heads off in the direction of his office. She walks to her room, tucks the masks into her wooden treasure box, feeling not quite present, her thoughts in a muddle. 

In the kitchen, Yogi and Iva are eyeing the cake while making their way through a humongous pot of black tea. They are quick to settle her down at the table and shove a giant slab of cake onto her plate before starting on the rest. 

She puts a forkful into her mouth. The cake tastes spongey and sweet, with a hint of tartness just at the end, at the moment before it is swallowed. Familiar, nostalgic.

“Here, Tsukumo-chan, the last strawberry!” Yogi says when they are almost finished, placing it on the puddle of whipped cream on her plate. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

“How does it feel to be an adult?” Iva asks, grinning. 

“A little confusing,” Tsukumo replies.

“It’ll get better,” Iva says. “And we’re here for you. Have some tea.”


End file.
